


Patient

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Incest, M/M, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 08:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10986933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil tries, yet again, to invoke his ancient rite.





	Patient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTVJunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTVJunkie/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for TheTVJunkie’s “19. “I think I’m in love with you, and that scares the crap out of me." Oropher/Thranduil Maybe something exciting with a little fluff on top. Like Thranduil losing his virginity to his dad and how this "tradition" is carried on with Legolas etc. Can be mature or explicit, I leave that to you. I'm just fascinated by the idea of a younger, less confident and maybe even awkward Thranduil submitting to Oropher's gentle (yet somehow demanding) seduction. :)) Sex scene(s) written out instead of just being implied would be awesome!” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list). (Shortened to fit rules.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The candlelight is somewhat difficult to read by, but his bed is simply too comfortable to leave. The starlight that streams through his bedroom window to illuminate his desk still looks tempting. Oropher gazes across the wide space for a moment, then inevitably returns to the scroll spread across his lap without leaving. His four-poster bed is a grand, luxury piece, soft and plush. He reclines back against the pillows and wooden headboard, the thick blankets drawn up to his waist. His silver hair spills over his broad shoulders and half-open robes, as white and silken as his sheets. It’s a pleasant evening, nicely cool in the summer air, and if he didn’t have a kingdom to rule in the morning, he’d probably indulge in a peaceful read all night.

Just when he’s ready to retire the scroll, a knock sounds at his door. Oropher glances up but doesn’t move to answer it. He recognizes the pattern, as he recognizes all things that come from his son. Sure enough, the door cricks open without his bidding. Thranduil slips inside, closing it softly behind him. Oropher has been expecting this visit for some time.

In short, delectable robes that barely cover his thighs, Thranduil drifts across the carpet. His beauty is ethereal, no longer quite full of youth and certainly not innocent, but young compared to the elf he approaches. His hair is unbound, his eyes crystal clear. He comes around the side of the bed and slips right atop the mattress, daring to sit so close that his hips brush Oropher’s lap. Oropher reaches to set his scroll aside on the nightstand, and Thranduil tells him, “I demand the rite of my father.”

Oropher lets out a laboured sigh. Thranduil’s gaze hardens instantly, steeling over in determination. Oropher does _want_ to give him all he asks for.

But the same wish is on his handsome features, and with great effort, Oropher answers, “You are too young.”

Anger flashes through Thranduil’s eyes. Oropher knows it’s no longer rashness, merely the long pent up frustration of so much denial. Thranduil grits out, “That is what you said when I was six hundred. And five hundred. And the mark of five centuries should have granted me access to it: that is the tradition. Many of my peers have already felt it. Must I wait another century?”

Oropher’s mouth stays in a thin line. He’s grateful now for his rule; it’s taught him much, like how to school his features past emotion. He reaches out one hand, gently brushing a few stray, white-gold hairs behind Thranduil’s elegant ear. His points have always been strangely delicate for how chiseled the rest of his face has become. But Thranduil is a wondrous canvas full of clashing styles of beauty. He appeals in all ways. Oropher glides his fingertips along Thranduil’s strong jaw, cupping beneath it. Thranduil allows himself to be moved; he submits wholly to his father’s touch. 

Then, as Oropher lifts Thranduil’s chin, something changes, and doubt crosses his face. It’s an unusual sight—Thranduil is always so composed, so sure in all he does. Yet now he seems strangely vulnerable, and he quietly asks, “What is wrong with me?”

Oropher withdraws his hand. Thranduil winces as he’s abandoned, chin lowering again. He begs, “Am I not handsome? Do I not tempt you in the slightest?”

Though Oropher’s heart constricts, he merely shakes his head. He resists the urge to pull his beloved child into his arms. He tries to explain, “It is not about temptation, ion nín, and of course you are beautiful. You must know this.” Indeed, every eligible elf in their kingdom has lusted for the prince at one time or another—Oropher has seen it on their faces, heard it in their quiet gossip. He knows Thranduil’s had his share of lovers over the centuries, though none have remained more than a few nights, a fortnight at the very most. 

Thranduil pushes, voice breaking, “Then why will you not teach me? It is our way. I have seen many centuries, and I have lain with may others, and I am permitted to ask now to experience all the knowledge of my father. I want that. I have desired it for years. For decades. For _centuries_. And always you turn me away. What must I do to be worthy of you?”

He looks like he would say more, so close as he is to an edge, but Oropher has cupped his cheek again and softly stroked him. It silences Thranduil, though he leans and nuzzles into it. Oropher can see the supple shiver even that faintest touch gives Thranduil, and it makes this all the harder.

He’d meant to keep it secret. He had no wish to embarrass Thranduil be exposing that he knows the truth, but it’s clear he can’t turn Thranduil away again, not without doing damage. Thranduil’s confidence is part of what will make him such a great king, and Oropher has no wish to drain that unduly. He admits, “You are worthy, ion nín, and you know this, as I know you wish the rite. But it is because of that that I must deny you, and not because of any of my own feelings in the matter. You care for me, my Thranduil. I know this. But you care for me _too_ deeply.” Thranduil looks up at him, frowning heavily. He doesn’t deny it, and Oropher stresses, “The rite is only that. It is a bond of nothing more.” 

Thranduil has always been inordinately tall. He reaches slightly above Oropher, though he’s less broad, and yet, in this moment, he seems very small. He doesn’t reply for a long moment, and Oropher half hopes that he’ll simply leave—it would be easier for them both. But, of course, Thranduil’s never been a coward. He doesn’t run when things grow difficult. 

He murmurs quietly, “I... think I am in love with you, yes. And that... terrifies me.” The last words are barely a whisper. Oropher numbs at the simple declaration, one he’d known but tried not to see. Thranduil licks his lips and pushes, “But will you not even let me have a taste?”

Oropher almost wants to laugh. Thranduil’s persistent. 

Oropher uses his grip on Thranduil’s face to guide him forward, and Thranduil obediently moves where he’s pulled. Oropher rises to meet him, brushing a chaste kiss across his lips but holding him firmly still less he try any more. Thranduil whines in frustration. Oropher sighs, “I simply want what is best for you, ion nín. I want you to continue to grow, and I do not want you to be bound before even your own ascension to the throne. I fear if I let you into my bed now, you will never leave.”

“I will tonight,” Thranduil promises, though his hard expression makes it clear that he only does so on Oropher’s order. “I am wiser than you give me credit for, Adar. I will control myself. ...But whether you grant me my greatest wish or not, I will still love you deeply.”

Oropher knows that. So it’s been for centuries. And he tries to resist, though he doesn’t wish to, and he knows Thranduil will seduce him eventually. Thranduil dares to shift his hand across the mattress while he waits, idly placing his warm palm against Oropher’s thigh. Oropher doubts he has anything left to teach Thranduil that Thranduil hasn’t already learned, but he knows that isn’t the point between them. 

Only when Thranduil whispers, “ _Please_ ,” does Oropher finally break. He draws Thranduil to him for another kiss, and this time, he allows Thranduil’s tongue to swipe across his lips. He pushes it back with his own, and to his surprise, Thranduil acquiesces.

Thranduil is still while Oropher threads long fingers into his hair. Thranduil allows Oropher to slip into his mouth and plunder it, to guide him and suck him, to scrape across his lips. Oropher wraps his free hand around Thranduil’s trim waist, and he pulls Thranduil into his lap with startling ease; Thranduil submits to all his touch. 

When their lips part, Thranduil moans, “ _Adar_ ,” and visually pleads for another kiss until Oropher rewards him.


End file.
